


Cliff's Edge, Where I Belong

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Closing in Closer to You [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Flirting, Wife Swapping, whouffaldi, whouffaldi ficchal #2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 16:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7181090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dinner party is - the Doctor has to admit - the perfect cover to accomplish their goal: to steal back a vortex manipulator from what can loosely be termed <em>the wrong hands.</em> Yet there is one tiny, insignificant detail that he's forgotten to mention to Clara about their invitation: she will be playing his beautiful, dutiful wife for the duration of the evening's events.</p><p>Once her anger has abated, she finds herself getting into character with a level of enthusiasm that surprises them both, and everything seems to be going smoothly. Or at least,  it is, until it comes to the after-dinner entertainment...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cliff's Edge, Where I Belong

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for [xXdreameaterXx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/xXdreameaterXx)'s Whouffaldi Fic Challenge! The prompt: The Doctor and Clara have to pretend to be married. (Which is, incidentally, the plot of [Looking For Something Dumb to Do](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6050947/chapters/13872559), but that's another matter entirely.) 
> 
> Title from "Cliff's Edge" by Hayley Kiyoko.

“Remind me,” Clara asked under her breath as they approached the foreboding-looking house, looming imposingly though the forest that surrounded it. “Why in _hell’s name_ I agreed to this insane plan?” 

“Because it’s a good plan,” the Doctor reminded her pointedly. “We need to get that vortex manipulator back from Markus Mayhew, and this dinner party is excellent cover.” 

“We don’t _need_ excellent cover,” Clara hissed in irritation. “We have a TARDIS, remember? Big blue box, travels anywhere in time and space? Ringing any bells?” 

“I’ve told you,” he said with exasperation. “We can’t land in the house; he’s put a field around it…” 

“Which is why I’ve just walked a mile over gravel in stilettos, yep, _great_.” 

“Well, you didn’t have to wear them,” he pointed out. “It’s not my fault you’re tiny, and you’ve got a complex about it.” 

“Maybe I’ve got a complex about it because you keep bloody – _shit_ ,” her ankle had twisted over as she spoke, and she stopped, flexing it experimentally and deciding it was undamaged. “OK, we’re good. Luckily for you, mister.” 

“How is that _my_ fault?!” the Doctor asked incredulously, rolling his eyes at the look of fury that overtook her face at his words. 

“Oh, I don’t know? Maybe it has something to do with you turning up in my flat all ‘oh Clara, we _need_ to pop by the twenty-fourth century to nick back a vortex manipulator off some nasty chap with a beard, so that means a dinner party, by the way, dress fancy.’ Dressing fancy – for your information, Doctor – for most human women means heels. So heels it is. If you make one more comment about my height, or my face, then I will insert the sharp end of these heels somewhere. OK?” 

“OK,” he muttered contritely, casting his gaze down to the gravel before offering her his arm in an apologetic gesture. “You look nice.” He said gruffly, thanking the lord that it was dark and she couldn’t see him blush. “Really. Very nice.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she said more gently, her anger fading as she rested her hand lightly in the crook his elbow, before they continued up the driveway at a more leisurely pace. “Very dapper. Very trustworthy looking. You’ve got the sonic, right?” 

“Of course,” he assured her, as they ascended the steps of the front porch of the magnificent house. “Now, let me do the talking-”

“Cos that always goes _so_ well…” Clara muttered under her breath, and he shot her a dark look as he rang the elaborate doorbell, hearing it sound somewhere in the bowels of the house. 

A few seconds later, the majestic-looking door swung open, and they were greeted by a sharply-dressed butler, who appraised them silently before asking: “Name?”

“I’m Doctor John Smith,” the Doctor began, holding up the psychic paper. “I was invited. This is my-” 

“Oh! Doctor Smith, of course – it was so wonderful to receive your RSVP, I know Mr Mayhew greatly enjoys your correspondence. This must be your lovely lady wife.”

“Urm,” Clara began, shifting uncomfortably and hoping she hadn’t gone red. “Actually-” 

“What a lovely couple,” the butler continued, ignoring her words. “Doctor Smith speaks most highly of you, Mrs Smith.” 

“It’s Oswald,” she said firmly, deciding that the best strategy may be to just play along. “ _Ms_ Oswald. I kept my name when we, ah… got… married. Can’t let my own talents be overshadowed now, can I?” 

“Certainly not,” the butler said politely, stepping back to permit them entry. “May I take your coats?” 

Crossing the threshold, the Doctor shrugged off his overcoat and handed it to the butler silently, as Clara slipped off the thick faux-fur coat she had donned just prior to leaving her flat. Turning to face him, her coat held out in one arm, the Doctor noticed for the first time the low cut of her dress, which wrapped around her tightly and emphasised her figure in all the right places, while leaving her legs and décolletage bare. _Oh lord help me,_ he thought to himself, swallowing thickly. _She’s doing this on purpose. She must be._  

“Ahem,” Clara said, clearing her throat slightly as the butler took her coat from her with a polite smile. “Eyes front and centre. _Husband_.” The word rolled off her tongue lasciviously, and he dragged his eyes upwards guiltily, the tips of his ears turning red as she smirked at him lightly. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled awkwardly, lost for words momentarily. “My bad.”

“Well,” the butler said conspiratorially, leaning in slightly with a grin. “I must say, Doctor, your wife is a very attractive lady. If you don’t mind my saying so, sir.” 

“He doesn’t mind,” Clara said sweetly, eyeing the man distastefully. “But I do, so keep those eyes to yourself thanks pal, and lead the way.” 

“I… apologies, madam, I didn’t mean… I do apologise, yes, the dinner…” the butler grew flustered, stammering over his words before hanging their coats on a rail and then turning sharply on his heel and leading them down a corridor, Clara and the Doctor following several paces behind him. 

“So,” Clara said quietly, looking up to the Doctor with a bemused look. “Wife, eh?” 

“About that,” he said immediately, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “It was… urm… well, I couldn’t just turn up, so I’ve been posting him letters for years claiming to be an expert on alien stuff, and I mentioned you, and well… he got the wrong idea.”

“And you let him continue to have the wrong idea?” Clara asked, raising one eyebrow at him dangerously. “Now now, that’s a little careless.” 

“Well I couldn’t just tell him that you weren’t, could I?” the Doctor rolled his eyes. “He’s a traditionalist, Clara – big old house in a classical style, lots of antiques… good old family values. I couldn’t just tell him we’re running around in sin, could I?” 

“Oh, we’re in sin now, are we?” Clara was giving him a look that made him feel decidedly hot under the collar, and so he looked away, focusing determinedly on the interior of the house. “Have we been _sinning_?”

“Clara,” he said uncomfortably, but she only chuckled. “Be good.” 

“I’m just teasing,” she purred, her thumb stroking his arm lightly. “I’m always good. Except when I’m not.” 

“Urm,” he managed, in a slightly strangled tone, trying to silence the thoughts manifesting in his head. _Clara doing her come-to-bed eyes. Clara, in bed, beckoning to him wickedly. Clara, underneath him, calling his_ – he groaned inwardly and tried to force back the images. “Right, let’s go over the plan,” he said, mainly to try and change the subject. “You’re OK with it, right?”

“Eat dinner, look pretty, be charming, all that sexist bullshit, then we sneak off afterwards when they’re all hobnobbing and find the manipulator?” she recited from memory, and when he dared to look at her she was grinning excitedly in a way that was _entirely_ inappropriate. “Got it.” 

“That’s why I married you,” he quipped before he could stop himself, but was prevented from making further remarks by the butler finally showing them into a high-ceilinged room filled with a group of people.

“Doctor Smith, and his wife Ms Oswald,” he announced grandly, but almost no one turned to look at the new arrivals, so fixated were most of them in conversation. Only one man turned, and Clara recognised him instantly as the target of the night – Markus Mayhew, the vortex manipulator’s owner. 

“Ah!” Markus exclaimed, crossing the room to the pair of them and enthusiastically shaking the Doctor’s hand. “It’s so good to finally meet you, John! I can call you John, right pal? I mean, what, it’s been years… thank god you finally had a window in your schedule to come to one of our little soirées!” 

“It’s good to see you,” the Doctor said with surprising warmth and sincerity. “I’m glad I could make it at last, I’ve wanted to meet for a really long time.” Clara cleared her throat. “Oh, and this is my… wife, Clara.” 

“Well,” Markus turned his attention to her, and instantly Clara regretted her choice of dress as his eyes fell on her cleavage and stayed there. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you, honey.” He leant in and kissed her cheeks, and it was all she could do not to flinch as his lips smacked her skin. “How’s things, sweetheart?” 

Beside her, the Doctor bristled – he could see Clara’s discomfort, could see the way Markus’s eyes lingered on her chest, and it irked him. He may have glanced – who was he kidding, he more than glanced – that way himself, but this man held no respect for Clara, this man saw her as nothing more than an object to own. She was worth more than that. It was down to him to remind Markus of that. 

“Clara’s actually nearly finished her doctorate,” he lied easily. “So soon we’ll both be doctors in our field.”

“Oh?” Markus’s gaze never left Clara’s cleavage, but his top lip curled in a disdainful way that suggested he didn’t believe a woman could possibly reach the upper echelons of academia. “What in?”

“It’s actually fascinating,” Clara said innocently, gratefully seizing upon the bone the Doctor had thrown her. “It’s about how men objectifying women based on their cleavage is a largely western phenomenon, and the extent to which it’s causing the degeneration of the male psyche due to their fixation with the female bosom.” 

The Doctor bit back a laugh as Markus’s eyes travelled upwards and took in Clara’s slight smirk, trying to work out whether she was teasing him or not. 

“What did you find?” he asked suspiciously, and Clara raised her eyebrows in mock affront. 

“Tell you my research?!” she cried in mock horror. “Pah, you should be so lucky – what, wanting to take all the credit? Typical man, honestly… I’ve worked my arse off for five years on this research and you want to swoop in and steal my findings? Really. I’m insulted. John, darling, you didn’t tell me your friend would be attempting to steal my research.” 

“Steal… no, no,” Markus stammered, turning beet-red as he took in Clara’s indignant expression. “Just… just curious, I would never… urm, maybe it would be best if you two went and found some drinks, yes?” 

“Yes,” the Doctor said decisively, still trying not to laugh as he meshed his fingers through Clara’s and led her away in the direction of the drinks table. “Oh, god, that was _brilliant_.” 

“Well,” she said drily. “I’m not just a pretty face. Or a good rack. Besides, you’re meant to be my husband, so anyone else staring at my boobs in front of you should expect a good kick up the arse.”

“Wait,” the Doctor said as she reached for a glass of champagne, and she froze. “No, not the champagne, you can drink that, I meant _wait,_ as in metaphorically.” 

“Thank Christ,” Clara sighed with relief as she took a glass and downed it in one. “This is needed to survive that douchebag. Why are we metaphorically waiting?” 

The Doctor looked slightly pained. “If I’m your… husband,” he began uncertainly. “And I’m meant to be annoyed about people looking at you, doesn’t that make me… I don’t know, possessive, or something? Because that’s quite rude, isn’t it? You’re not an object, you’re a person; I don’t own you.” 

“Doctor,” she looked up at him with a small smile, and he felt jealousy burn inside him counter to his words, because he _was_ possessive, because no-one else _should_ be looking at her, she was _his_. “I know it’s rude, but this is just playing pretend, right? So it doesn’t matter if you’re a bit green-eyed.” 

“A bit…” 

“Jealous,” she clarified gently. “Possessive. And also affectionate.” 

“Affectionate?” he felt both his hearts thud painfully at the prospect. He had come to enjoy her hugs and her little touches, friendly and demonstrative reminders of their friendship, but even he understood that what she was insinuating was something further to that, something more intimate, despite the pretence of the situation. 

“Yeah, affectionate,” she said with a grin, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek and wrapping her arm around his neck, her breath hot on his neck as she feigned a small laugh, as though he had just said something amusing. In his ear, she murmured: “This kind of affectionate. Is that OK?” 

“Y-yes,” he managed, disconcerted and – although he would rather have died than admit it – slightly aroused from having her so close to him, her lips on his skin and… oh, gods, her chest so exposed. “Fine. Absolutely fine.” 

“Good,” she said, looking at him with an unreadable expression. “So I’m doing OK. But you need to work on that pretend-possessive thing.” 

“Oh,” he said blankly, looking to her nervously. “I do?” 

“Yes,” she told him. “So, you know, firstly… you’re a doctor of… something, right? Pretty important. You’re an important guy, so your wife is a commodity, so you want people to know she’s yours, you want to remind everyone that you managed to pull someone young and gorgeous.”

“Clara,” he rolled his eyes at her fondly. “Your narcissism is showing.”

“No!” she insisted. “It’s a fair point. You’ve got a brilliant young trophy wife – who happens to be working towards a PhD, admittedly – so you want people to covet her.” 

She was giving him a look. The kind of look that generally made him very, very nervous, but all the more so given the proximity between them and the dress she was wearing and the situation at hand. They needed to make this realistic, that much he knew – needed to win confidences so that no one would suspect their true motives. But his willingness to commit to this – to her – was held back by his desire for her, and the fear of overstepping a mark, the fear of pushing things too far and exposing his feelings, and so he feigned reticence at her words, while his instincts roared loudly and insisted instead that he simply kiss her then and there. 

“How?” he whispered after a few seconds, resigning himself to her plan, and she looked up at him smugly. 

“Firstly,” she said pragmatically, biting her lower lip as she looked up at him. “Your hand is on my waist.”

“Isn’t that good?” he asked her in bafflement, and then it was her turn to roll her eyes. 

“Nope,” she informed him patiently. “Because I’m your trophy wife, and my waist is not even _slightly_ sexual, so when you’ve got your arm around me like that you rest it on my arse.” 

“I… what?” he could do that, he was _so willing_ to do that, but he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to stop himself from slipping his palm underneath her dress, from pulling her close and ravishing her, if she gave him the permission to touch her so explicitly. Not to mention the fact that this was, of course, not particularly gentlemanly to do – to touch one’s companion’s… behind. He tried to tell himself it was a great deal more of the latter.

“My arse. Hand on it. Now.” 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re really bossy, and for a feminist you’re doing a really bad job of it?” 

“No such thing as a bad feminist! This is consensual, and I’m telling you to do it,” she reminded him, shifting subtly so that his hand rested on the curve of her arse. “There. Not too bad, is it?” 

“No,” he said quite truthfully. “Not bad at all.”

“Down, boy,” she grinned. “Secondly, neck kisses are good.” 

“Why?” he asked in confusion, uncertain about this directive. “I thought humans liked kissing on the lips.” 

“Necks are erogenous,” Clara explained patiently, and the Doctor felt colour rise to his cheeks. “Chill! It’s not going to make me want to jump you.” She paused for a minute, then winked and added: “…much.” 

“Clara!”

“I’m kidding!” she sighed, and then appraised the situation. “Then again, actually, given the height difference, maybe just limit yourself to kissing my hair. Might look weird otherwise. _Don’t_ give me that look, you used to do it. When you were… you know, before.” 

“True,” he concurred with quiet acceptance. “Hand on your… behind; kiss your hair; anything else, boss?”

“Maybe look at my boobs occasionally,” she mused, chewing her lip slightly as she pondered. “Yeah, do that.” 

 _Oh, gods._ Why hadn’t they had this conversation back in the TARDIS? Why had she waited until they got here to spring these things on him? He needed adequate preparation before being told things like _put your hand on my arse,_ or _stare at my boobs,_ but instead he was stuck with complying with her instructions lest any other guests note anything suspicious about the so-called married couple.

“Right,” he said in a slightly strangled tone. “You know; you were really opposed to this whole married-couple-roleplay thing five minutes ago.” 

“Well, I don’t half-ass anything,” Clara protested. “I whole-ass it.” 

“So I can feel,” he said before he could stop himself, taking in her shocked look and immediately beginning to stammer out an apology. “I mean, I… ah, shite, I… sorry, Clara, sorry…” 

Much to his surprise, she burst out laughing. “Oh, you daft old man,” she said fondly. “You _do_ surprise me sometimes.” 

Before he could put his foot in it any further, there was the soft chime of a gong, and the butler appeared on the far side of the room. “Dinner is served, ladies and gentlemen.” 

Smiling at the Doctor reassuringly, Clara moved into the dining room, feeling not only his hand on her arse but also the eyes of others on them both, shooting them looks that were tinged with jealousy. She couldn’t help but smirk a little as she took her seat, ostentatiously taking the Doctor’s hand on the table and twining their fingers together as he turned his attention to his neighbour out of politeness. 

“Hello again, stranger,” came a familiar voice from her other side, and Clara swivelled in her seat to take in the warm smile of Journey Blue, garbed in a form-fitting suit and tie that filled Clara with envy. “Nice to see you two finally sorted your shit out.” 

“What the… what are you doing here?” Clara asked with shock, before smiling at their old acquaintance. 

“Got married and settled down here, didn’t I? Wrote a few books – claimed they were fictional, of course – but obviously Mr Mayhew liked what he read, so I somehow got an invite a few months back. Been a regular ever since.” Journey grinned at Clara playfully. “So, you’re married now?” 

“No… it’s… yeah, we’re married,” Clara lied, deciding that it was probably safer than taking Journey into their confidence. “Where’s your husband?” 

“Wife,” Journey corrected, as a stunning woman with smooth, alabaster skin and masses of gold hair sank into the seat the other side of the former freedom-fighter, leaning over to kiss her languidly. Once they had both come up for air, Journey took her wife’s hand: “Alana, this is Clara… her and her _husband_ saved my hide.” 

“It’s lovely to meet you,” Alana said, offering a small, seductive smile to Clara behind Journey’s back. “She speaks of you _most_ highly.” 

“Oh?” Clara asked, reaching for the glass of wine which sat beside her plate and sipping it to try and stop herself from blushing. “Well, I’m flattered.” 

“It’s not every day a gorgeous schoolteacher saves my arse from the Daleks, is it?” Journey said, and there was a definite twinkle in her eye as she looked at Clara. “I was a lucky lady, and the Doctor is a lucky man.”

The first course arrived at that moment and Clara tapped the Doctor’s arm before he could tuck in. “Doctor, look,” she said happily, watching as he caught side of Journey and beamed widely.

“Journey Blue!” he exclaimed happily, shaking her hand enthusiastically and she grinned back at him. “Good to see you again, how’s life post-Daleks?” 

“Pretty damn good,” she reasoned thoughtfully. “Got a wife and two dogs now. Proper boring, it’s great.” 

“Wife?” he raised an eyebrow as Clara tucked into her food. “Full of surprises, you are.”

“What, because I’m bisexual? Well, all kinds of people are, Doctor… intellectuals, warriors, workers…” Journey said, tipping Clara a hearty wink. “Schoolteachers who travel in time and space.” 

“What do you mean?” the Doctor asked, and Clara looked between him and Journey, feeling anger flare in the pit of her stomach as Journey threatened to reveal something she had wanted to keep hidden – not because she was ashamed, not because she felt she would be judged, but purely because she had never considered it pertinent to her travels with the Doctor. 

“Oh, come on Doctor. I’m not blind, and my Bi-Fi is pretty well tuned,” Journey scoffed. “Don’t tell me you haven’t twigged.” 

“Twigged _what_?” the Doctor scowled at her a little, and Clara turned slightly red, downing the rest of her glass of wine and waiting for it to be refilled. 

“Your wife swings both ways,” Journey said smugly, alcohol having already loosened her tongue, and Clara downed the refilled glass of wine before turning to the Doctor and opening her mouth to explain, finding herself cut off by the other woman before she could speak. “It’s as plain as the nose on her face, Doctor… you’re a lucky man, especially-” 

“Journey,” Clara said, her voice surprisingly cold. “That’s not really… it’s not anyone’s…” 

“Clara?” the Doctor interjected, and she looked up at him, her cheeks hot as she saw the confusion in his eyes. “What does she mean?” 

“She means,” Clara said through gritted teeth, fighting back tears as she realised she would have to explain. “That I’ve dated girls before, and I might again. Not that it’s any of her damn _business_ , not that she should have damn well told you, I can’t…” 

“Oh,” he smiled with some relief, the worry in his eyes dissipating as he stroked his thumb over the back of her hand. “Is that all? I thought it was a bad thing.”

“What, so you’re not… I don’t know, mad?” Clara asked incredulously, and he affixed her with a pitying look. 

“Why would I be?” he seemed genuinely puzzled by her question, as he leant in and whispered in her ear: “You’re _not_ my wife, so it’s not my business – and besides, I’ve dated men before, it’s not a big deal. The same sex can be much fairer than the opposite.” 

He had to admit that the thought of Clara with another woman was an appealing one – although one that made his jealousy roar lightly in his chest – but he told himself sternly that it was not his business who Clara chose to cavort with, particularly as she was not his property. 

“Oh,” she said simply, leaning over and kissing his cheek gratefully. “You’re terribly postmodern, you know that?” 

“I have been told,” he confessed lightly, taking a sip of his drink and barely disguising his grimace of disgust. “Wine: not good.” 

“Wine: very good,” Clara said breezily, and he groaned inwardly. “Don’t give me that look, I won’t get smashed. We’ve got a job to do, I haven’t forgetten.”

 

~/~/~/~

 

By the end of the meal, contrary to her promise, Clara was completely and totally pissed. The Doctor wasn’t sure whether the wine was more potent than what she was used to, whether she’d simply had too much too quickly, or whether something more sinister was at work, but he was certain it wouldn’t prove useful when it came to locating Markus’s vortex manipulator. He pursed his lips as he looked over to where she was sat with Journey, his eyes drawn momentarily to her cleavage as he felt his mind wander idly back to the thought of her with any other woman. It seemed a lightly appealing prospect to observe, but he felt a sense of guilt about now being party to the knowledge she had kept from him, thus he tried to keep his thoughts as pure as possible. 

She had been so angry at Journey for revealing her secret, yet after another glass of wine she had been openly flirting with both her and her wife, all playful words and light touches, long glances and girlish giggles. He felt his stomach clench in anger at Journey and Alana – didn’t they understand that Clara was _his_? That she wasn’t to be shared, that they were making him look bad by flirting with her in his presence? Clara was supposed to be _his_ wife – albeit only for the sake of pretence – but she was entirely diverted by the pair of them. He sighed angrily, pushing his dessert plate away from him in the hope it might attract Clara’s attention, but she remained focused on the two women beside her, smiling at them in a way he was certain she had never smiled at him. 

“Now,” came Markus’s voice from the head of the table, jolting him – probably blessedly – from his trance-like state. “We’ve had a wonderful meal, it’s time for a little entertainment, no?” 

There were near-universal murmurs of agreement from the guests, and Markus grinned around at them in a way that made the Doctor feel inexplicably uneasy. The butler entered the room with a golden urn that rustled slightly when moved, setting it down in front of the host before retreating, and the Time Lord felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“So, shall we pick the first pair of names?” Markus asked with a grin, and there were loud cheers and hoots from the guests, who watched as the host dipped his arm into the urn twice, removing two small slips of paper. “We have… Claire McAfee and Daniel Hawkins. What a lovely pairing, you lucky, lucky duo. Have fun, guys.” 

Two guests stood and rose from the table, smirking slightly at each other as they left the room arm in arm, and suddenly Clara was leaning against him, whispering urgently in his ear. 

“I thought you said that Markus respected _traditional family values_?” she asked, and he frowned at her, not understanding her meaning. 

“He does,” he assured her, his brow furrowing. “Why wouldn’t he?” 

“Because,” Clara began, feeling abruptly sober. “This is a swingers’ dinner.” 

“A _what_?” he asked in sheer bafflement, but before Clara could explain, Markus had drawn another two names from the urn. 

“Clara Oswald and Alana Merryweather,” he drawled, drawing wolf whistles from some of the male guests as Clara stood up hesitantly and looked between Alana and Journey, who only winked at her encouragingly. “Now now, don’t be shy, darling. I know it’s your first time, but you’ll get the hang of it quickly.” 

Before she could protest, Alana rose, taking her by the hand and leading her from the room, leaving the Doctor gaping at Markus as he tried to understand what was happening. 

“It’ll be fine,” Journey said, leaning over to him and patting his arm reassuringly. “It’s not, like, a serious thing.” 

“What isn’t?” he asked, and her eyes went wide as she realised the truth. 

“You mean you don’t…?” 

“John Smith and Journey Blue,” came Markus’s voice, and before the Doctor could respond, Journey had yanked him out of the room, dragging him out into the hallway and away from prying eyes. 

“OK. Here’s how this is going down. _Your_ wife is off shagging _my_ wife. You really don’t float my boat, but you know – all’s fair in love and war, so-” 

“She’s _what_?” he interrupted, feeling his jealousy burn through him, the thought of Clara with another woman no longer arousing but a threat, and given the state Clara was in… “She’s drunk, you can’t let Alana… _no_!” 

“Doctor, stop protesting quite so much and get with the programme, didn’t you realise what this was when you got the invite?”

“NO!” he roared, looking around him in desperation. “Where are they?” 

“I don’t know, upstairs maybe? It’s a big house, the security is tight, they won’t have been able to go far.” 

“Security,” he reiterated slowly, the words triggering something in his memory as he recalled the task at hand. “Ah, shite.”

“What?” Journey asked shortly. “If this is about shagging me, I promise I don’t bite.” 

He looked at her bizarrely. “It’s not about… doing things with you. Clara and I came here with a job. We’ve got to steal something.” 

“Well, won’t the cutlery or a towel do?”

“No, it’s something specific, it’s…” he sighed, deciding to trust Journey and hope that she would be able to help him. “It’s a vortex manipulator, Mayhew shouldn’t have it, he wants to use it to do… really not very nice things.” 

“Oh,” Journey said simply, a smile crossing her features. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Breaking and entering is kind of my forte. But don’t you want to go and get Clara?” 

“If we can find the manipulator, I can go back and interrupt her and Alana before anything gets too, ah… heated,” he explained awkwardly. “As far as I recall, the vault is downstairs, so let’s get going.”

“But you’ve got that blue box,” Journey protested. “Can’t you just use that?” 

“No such luck,” he said curtly, looking around for the hidden door he dimly remembered seeing on the blueprints. “So we’ve gotta go old-school.” 

“Old school like… using this door?” she suggested, and he looked over to where she stood, a hole in the wall gaping behind her. He silently thanked the gods for her help. 

“That’s the spirit,” he said tersely, taking out the sonic and stepping into a darkened corridor, advancing slowly for fear of triggering an alarm or alert. “I robbed a bank once, you know. With Clara.”

“Is that why she’s here now?” Journey asked curiously. “I mean, because you’ve both got experience?” 

“Nah,” he mused. “She wouldn’t stay at home, she insisted on coming along. She’s got quite the taste for danger, has Clara.”

“Clearly,” Journey muttered, as they emerged from the corridor to a long chamber, filled with glass cases that displayed alien curiosities, museum-style. “What _is_ all this?” 

“Space junk, mostly,” the Doctor admitted, using the sonic to short out the security cameras that circled the room, before checking for pressure pads and deeming the room safe. “But occasionally he found something valuable. Like the manipulator.” 

“So where is it?” 

He pointed to the end of the chamber, where there was a wall safe embedded in the granite bedrock that the house sat on. “Right there,” he said simply, beginning to make his way down the room cautiously, ignoring the self-proclaimed space-junk in favour of his target and what he needed it for, images of Clara consuming his mind: her with Alana; moaning softly, kissing her, touching her, their clothes coming off… 

“Oi,” Journey said teasingly from several paces to his left. “I know that look, stop thinking about Clara with another girl. I don’t know _what_ you men like about it, it’s a bloody obsession.” 

“Wasn’t,” he mumbled, blushing furiously and looking down at the floor, shoving his hands in his pockets as he crept forwards. “Look, she’s my… wife, I’m worried, OK?” 

“Worried,” Journey snickered softly. “Sure.”

Ignoring her comment, the Doctor reached the safe and held the sonic aloft, scanning it swiftly before disabling the alarms and overriding the security code. “Worried,” he reiterated firmly, opening the door and taking out the manipulator, looking down at it distastefully as he strapped it onto his wrist and programmed coordinates into it. 

“Doctor…” Journey began nervously, grabbing his arm to get his attention. “We’ve got a problem.” 

“Wh-” he looked up and followed her gaze to a small phalanx of guards who were making their way down the room, weapons aimed squarely at their heads. _Shite._ “Ah. Journey, change of plan, grab my arm.” 

As she did so, he pointed the sonic at the device, offered a silent prayer and hit the _go_ button. 

There was a loud bang, and the next thing he knew they were both stood in a golden-hued bedchamber, blinking in confusion before looking down at the two intertwined figures on the bed. One of them moaned and raised their head, and he realised with a start that it was Clara, that she was naked, and that she was straddling the other woman. 

He had to admit, she looked good. Even sweating from exertion and with rumpled hair, she looked good. Her skin was covered in a thin sheen of sweat that leant her an other-worldly quality, and a light flush tinged her décolletage a pale shade of pink, drawing his attention downwards to… oh, _gods,_ he shouldn’t be looking at her like this, he really shouldn’t be, but he wanted it – he wanted it so intensely it made his bones ache with longing to interrupt the two women and take Clara for himself, to mark her skin with his lips, to…

“Oh,” he said in embarrassment, tearing himself from his thoughts, looking to Journey to avoid looking at Clara and thus attempting to avoid the blood rushing to his groin. “Oops.” 

“You _said_ ,” Journey chided, without reprimand. “That you’d interrupt them before things got _heated_.” 

“I know,” he snarled through gritted teeth, trying to keep his composure. “I cocked up.” 

“I noticed,” Journey smirked, and it was then that Clara’s eyes focused enough for her to realise who was looking at her, what she had been caught doing, and she shrieked, rolling off Alana and tugging the sheets over her. “Hi, Clara.” 

“You…” Clara stammered, as Alana sat up coolly and grinned at her wife. “You… _shit,_ what the hell?” 

“Clara, get some clothes on,” he said, his tone harsher than intended. “We’ve got the manipulator, but they know we’re here, so we should probably, you know… split.” 

“Alana, same goes for you,” Journey said with considerably more amusement. “Sorry to ruin your fun.”

“Mm, I can forgive you,” her wife breathed, standing up without a hint of shame and pulling her dress back on calmly. “She’s wild, that one.” 

Clara scowled and reached for her underwear carefully, keeping the sheets around herself as she pulled on her bra and knickers, before standing up and casting the linen aside as she reached for her dress and yanked it back over her head. “Shoes,” she mumbled, a little disorientated, searching the floor for them. “Where are my shoes?” 

The Doctor seized them and immediately realised the problem at hand, recalling her difficulties walking in them on the way here _, pre_ four glasses of wine, and came to a practical solution. 

“Get on my back,” he commanded, and she looked at him as though he’d lost his mind. “Look, it’s this or die, so climb on, I can manage you.” 

Nervously she approached him and jumped up, her legs wrapping around his waist distractingly tightly as he crossed to the window, looking out and thanking the gods they were on the ground floor. 

“Journey,” he said, remembering his manners abruptly. “I’d suggest following our lead down the drive. Should we die, it was lovely catching up with you again, we must all go for tea and scones or… something.” 

“We’ve got transport,” Journey assured him, chuckling at the image of him with Clara on his back like a small spider-monkey. “See you soon, space man.” 

“See you soon, Clara,” Alana added with a wink, before both women phased out of being using what the Doctor guessed was a rudimentary teleport. _Next time,_ he thought to himself. _Next time, that might be an idea._

He clambered out the window with Clara clutching him silently, too confused and disorientated to be able to complain much about his ungainly style of running or how much she was being bounced about as he scrambled over the gravel of the drive. Once they were out of sight of the house, he slowed down a little, half turning his head so that he could see her from the corner of his eye as he ran. 

“Everything OK back there?” he asked worriedly, and was met only with a small _mm_ in response, as she tried to recall the ability to form sentences. 

“I feel a bit stupid,” she mumbled after a moment of concentration. “Oops.” 

“We all make mistakes,” he assured her gently, as the TARDIS came into sight. “I won’t hold it against you, Clara.” He stumbled through the doors and deposited her carefully in the reading chair, crouching down and checking her pulse, her pupils, her breathing. “You’ll be OK in the morning, you’re just a bit drunk, that’s all.” 

“Did you… did you get the manipulator?” she asked a little breathlessly, and he nodded, holding his wrist up to display it to her proudly. 

“Overloaded it bringing Journey with me when I hopped the vault,” he unbuckled it and crossed the console room to stow it safely in a drawer. “It’s all fine n-” He turned around again to see Clara stood, albeit a touch unsteadily, by the armchair, stripping out of her dress determinedly. 

“Don’t mind me,” she said, with a small giggle. “This dress is _not_ good when you’re all sex sweaty.” 

“Oh,” he said, trying desperately not to stare at any part of her other than her face. “That’s, urm… an issue, yeah.”

“You can look, you know,” Clara said self-assuredly, as the shock began to wear off and the alcohol in her system began to take over once again. “You _are_ my husband, after all.” 

“Clara, I’m not your husband,” he said simply, but she only pouted in response, crossing the room to stand beside him at the console. “Cla-” 

She stood on tiptoes and kissed him, one hand pulling him down by the lapels as the other came to rest on the back of his neck, anchoring him to her firmly. His mind exploded into stars at the unfamiliar sensation of her lips on his, the taste of her overwhelming him as his hand found her waist and he stroked his thumb over the warm skin of her stomach, kissing her deeply before remembering, abruptly, the circumstances and pulling away. 

“Clara, love,” he said softly, battling against the voices in his head telling him to continue. “You’re drunk, you don’t really want a beat-up old bloke like me.”

“I’m drunk,” she clarified confidently. “But I like you an awful lot. You’d be a pretty good _real_ husband.” 

“I…” he began, lost for words, and she seized the opportunity to kiss him again. “Clara!” he protested, pulling away again. “Come on, you’re drunk. You need to go to bed, OK? Let me take you to bed.” 

“Oooh,” she said with a high-pitched giggle, offering him her hand. “Yes, take me to bed, Doctor.”

“Not…” he realised what he’d said and ran a hand through his hair. “Not like that, Clara… come on, stop being daft.” 

He took her firmly by the hand and began to lead her towards her room, refusing to look back at her lest his willpower crumble. _She’s drunk,_ he told himself sternly. _It wouldn’t be right._  

When they reached the familiar environ of her bedroom, he turned and gave her a long look. “Bed,” he said in his best approximation of her teacher voice, surprised when she climbed obediently under the covers, looking to her critically and discerning the slight wane of the alcohol’s influence. “Be good, OK? Night.” 

“Wait,” she said, seizing his hand tightly in hers. “Stay,” she whispered, looking up at him through her lashes, looking surprisingly vulnerable. “Please, tonight has been weird, please stay.”

“OK,” he capitulated immediately, mentally cursing himself as he slipped off his boots and climbed under the sheets with her and she curled into his side comfortingly. “Clara, she didn’t… you didn’t do anything you didn’t want, did you?” 

“No,” she murmured, nuzzling her face into his shoulder, her cheeks tinged pink. “She was very pretty, and I wanted her… but I don’t know, I didn’t _feel_ anything for her. My heart wasn’t in it.” 

“Oh,” he said, not really understanding but trying to pretend he did. “Are you OK?” 

“Mm,” she mumbled, and for a long while she was silent, the Doctor left wondering whether she had fallen asleep. After what felt like eons, she said quietly: “Did you and Journey…?” 

“No,” he said immediately, seeking to allay her worries, stroking her hair affectionately. “No, we didn’t.” 

“Good,” she said in a small voice, her palm resting on his chest. “Good. _My_ Doctor.” 

“Clara,” he said softly, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, and she hummed contentedly as she fell asleep in his arms. “ _My_ Clara.”


End file.
